I Can Help You With That - Tom Hiddleston as Oakley (Unrelated 2007)
by sherekahnsgirl
Summary: Oakley angsty older widow - schmexy times ensue. This story is UNFINISHED and will remain so.
1. Chapter 1

A/N:

18+ ONLY! Mature Audiences ONLY!

NSFW, but not until about Chapter 4.

This is a slow burning story, so if you don't like that kind of thing, don't read it.

Erotica, Smutty Smut Smut, Light D/s, Spanking, Sex, Oral Sex, Fluff, Floof

"I can help you with that, you know."

I cocked my head to one side, looking at the young man standing before me. He was terribly tall - having shot up years ago when he began luxuriating in calling me "Shorty" - having borrowed the nickname and the habit of using it at every possible chance to annoy me from my husband - with a riotous crown of gold ringlets that gave him an angelic air that the rest of him did everything in its power to make up for. He was impossibly long limbed and deceptively lean, with the strength of untested youth and the personality of the labradoodle he so closely resembled - with a generous sprinkling of stubborn English bulldog and a soupcon of pit bull if and when he deemed it necessary.

But mostly he was a smart, funny, personable young man that I'd been on the fringes of watching grow up. As an early adolescent, he had answered an ad I'd placed for someone who was willing to do regular yard word, and Oakley had shown up. My beloved husband had become unable to keep up with the place we'd bought only a year or so before, and Oakley's assistance had been invaluable. My husband had taken to sitting on one of the benches in our big garden and directing Oakley's activities. As a result of his efforts, even though Paul rapidly became entirely unable to see to it himself, our garden always looked amazing. He had a way with plants and so did Paul.

I just did my best to keep him fed while he was with us - and in addition to what we were paying him our grocery bill nearly tripled that summer and every one after it - usually giving him a second breakfast, lunch, mid afternoon snack and having him to dinner most nights, too. Sometimes the three of us got to watching movies or TV so late I didn't want him to have to drive home and then just come back in the morning, so he stayed overnight in one of the guest rooms upstairs. It seemed he had a very unsettled relationship with his father, and was often looking to be anywhere but at home.

I never had the gumption to ask him if his parents ever fed him, but he let it slip eventually that his mom wasn't much for cooking, so he mostly had to fend for himself or eat take out food.

He continued to come to us - for less time each successive summer that he was away at university, but always ready and willing to work, and keeping in contact with us over the year somewhat spottily but frequently nonetheless, especially considering we were no relation to him.

He had appeared on my doorstep one evening at the beginning of this summer unannounced. It was only seven or so, but I was in my pajamas and had hastily thrown a robe on over them to get the door.

"Oakley!"

"I hope it's not too late to visit -"

Those eyes had only gotten more and more startling as he'd grown. His face was tanned, making them - and that wonderful bright blonde hair of his - pop even more than they usually did against his skin.

He was downright gorgeous and I found myself staring up at him until he startled me by bending his legs and gathering me to him for a wonderfully gentle hug. As much as I wanted to melt into him - against him - to lean on his strength and youth and vitality that tried to draw me to him like a moth to a flame - I remained relatively stiff in his arms until he murmured, "I'm so sorry about Paul."

Tears - as always - sprang to my eyes as I could hear the warmth and affection he felt for my husband in his words, but that also got me to relax when nothing else could have, my fingers finding his biceps and squeezing - or trying to anyway. He had more muscles than I could ever hope to have in this lifetime and it was like trying to squeeze marble.

"Thank you for your beautiful card and the flowers." Kissing his cheek in what I hoped was a purely casual way, I backed out of his arms in order to prevent the inevitable flood of tears. I was then somehow possessed to let my hand fiddle with the perfectly proper neckline of my robe - as if I was wearing some lacy, Victoria's Secret style negligee in front of him instead of much more spinsterish - or more accurately, widowish - cotton robe. "I'm sorry for not really being ready to receive -"

It was his turn to color, and even that only seemed to enhance his beauty. "I'm sorry. I should have called, but I was in the neighborhood -"

My eyebrow rose. Where we lived was quite remote - we'd deliberately chosen it to be that way.

More blushing, but he didn't seem to let it bother him much and I heartily wished - not for the first time - that I could get him to show me that trick. "Well, I got home a few days ago and Mum and Dad had me scheduled with family things to within an inch of my life - but I wanted to come up here to see you as soon as I could."

I shrugged, saying, "I don't mind the informality if you don't," knowing it was a complete and total lie.

I had been horrified to realize that I had developed a sizeable mid-life crush on Oakley since the first summer he'd come back from university and I'd gotten a good look at the man he had suddenly become from the kitchen window as he'd been helping Paul - stripped to the waist, wearing just a pair of khaki board shorts, his body glistening with sweat and rippling with muscles, hair even curlier than usual from the heat, skin becoming darker and darker as the days and weeks went on. . .

That summer I'd seen less of him than I used to - deliberately finding other things to do rather than joining him and Paul to putter in the garden, and flat out refusing to join him when he availed himself of the cooling comfort of our pool before dinner - then again after, just before he left for the evening - if he did at all.

Now he shrugged, watching me intently. I didn't think I remembered him ever looking at me in quite that way. I was beginning to feel like a piece of steak that had been thrown to a ravenous dog, and, despite my crush, I didn't like thinking of Oakley like that.

Besides it was probably just me and my overactive hormones.

He'd always known that we didn't stand on formality in our - my - house, but I had always waited on Paul - and did so even when he was hale and hearty - so I reverted to type. "Can I get you something? I think I have a Guinness or two hiding somewhere for cooking purposes."

"Cooking?!" he looked flat out horrified, his hand over his chest, then followed me into the kitchen and got out a pint glass to hand to me.

I poured for him, then handed it back.

"You're not drinking?"

I shook my head. "I haven't taken a drink since before he died. Just . . . no fun to do by myself."

"But you're not alone; you're with me," he said matter of factly, putting his glass down on the counter to step past me, and I got an involuntary whiff of how he smelled, my eyes closing as my nipples peaked on potent hints of sunshine, youthful masculinity, whatever remained of his earthy cologne, and pure unadulterated sex. He smelled like sex, as if he'd up and left his lover to come see me. I hunched my shoulders just a bit, hoping to hide my most blatant reaction to his intoxicating scent as much as possible.

Oakely had an amazing memory, finding the bottle of white wine that lived at the back of my fridge, procuring a glass from the cupboard and pouring - in turn - a bit too generously - for me. "I remember you liked the liebfraumilsch."

"I do."

I followed him into the living room and we sat where we always sat - minus one; Oakley on our tiny loveseat, which looked that much ridiculously smaller now that he had come into his size, and me in one of the matching, rocking, wing-backed recliners that Paul and I had shared, mine being right next to the loveseat.

Easily within touching distance of Oakley - and his widely spread legs - in the small room.

Not that there would ever be a reason for me to touch Oakley's leg, of course.

 _Unfortunately_ , my mind supplied wistfully.

His choice of garb hadn't changed much - he was in shorts and a loose football jersey, with trainers. And, damn if his feet weren't the biggest I'd ever seen. Feet and hands were the two areas on a man I noticed first after eyes - not for the purported information they were supposed to impart about his intimate proportions, but rather to see what footwear he preferred, and, more importantly, how he used his hands - if the fingernails were clean, if there were obvious calluses, etc.

I didn't even want to _think_ about what the rest of him might be like if his hands and feet were any indication . . .

Or did I?

"How was university this year?" I asked, taking a bigger than usual sip - more towards a gulp - of wine, hoping it would help dampen my libido and calm my nerves.

He told me all about his classes and what he and his friends had been up to.

"Oh, hey," I thought belatedly, "are you hungry?"

He shook his head, but I knew he just didn't want to bother me. "I'll get something on the way home."

I frowned, already getting up. I still had meals that I had cooked ahead in the freezer all portioned out, and I knew I had at least a couple of Oakley's favorite - lasagna. A few minutes in the microwave, a bit of doctoring with fresh parmesan and I brought him a hot, home cooked meal in less than five minutes.

"Oh, man, I had forgotten what food like this tasted like," he said, taking an enormous bite and groaning in a most improper manner. "You're not eating?"

I didn't tell him that eating was one of the things I did infrequently at best nowadays. Instead, I laughed. "I remember what food was like in my college cafeteria, back in the stone age. It was barely edible."

"Don't do that," Oakley said between bites, putting his spoon down and frowning fiercely at me.

"Do what?" I took another swig of wine and tried to ignore just how dominant he looked and sounded. Where had that voice and that look come from all of a sudden? I wondered. Had Oakley lost his virginity this late - he was too damned good looking for it to have taken that long -

 _Stop thinking about when - or worse how - Oakley had had his first sexual experience_! my mind screamed at me.

Those blue eyes settled on me and unsettled me in the process. I was beginning to think I should never have invited him in. "Talk as if you're an old."

I laughed. "I am an old, Oakley. Hell, I could be your _mother_."

He snorted. "You'd've had to have been a damned precocious young girl."

"I didn't say it was probable, I said it was possible, and that is true."

"You don't act old, like my parents do."

My smile was wan at best, my voice soft. "But I _feel_ old, Oakley, especially these days. Paul kept me young."

His eyes softened. "You look tired."

I frowned at him with a half smile. "Thanks ever so much." He didn't smile back, but continued to look at me as if willing me not to try to make a joke out of my answer. The callow youth that had come to us less than a decade ago had faded as if he'd never been there, and I gave him his due, admitting on a sigh, "I _am_ tired. More tired than I've ever been in my life." I drained my glass and he put the empty bowl on the table, but I scooped it up immediately, too.

"Thank you for dinner, but you didn't have to do that."

"I don't have to do this, either." When I returned seconds later, I handed him a homemade brownie that I had thawed at the same time, so that it was warm and gooey.

He bit into it and threw his head back, groaning in ecstasy.

My dirty mind, of course, immediately suggested that that was probably what he looked like when he orgasmed. Dear God, I wished he wouldn't do that.

 _Mental note: no more brownies for Oakley_.

He paused while devouring the treat to look at me so intently that I allowed myself to be the first one to look away, which I almost never did with anyone. "I came up here to offer my help this summer in doing whatever needs done around the house that you can't - or don't want to do -"

"Oh, Oakley, that's sweet, but - "

"Paul asked me to keep an eye out for you the last time I saw him," he stated firmly, as if that trumped any objection I might raise.

My eyebrows hit my hairline. I was completely taken aback. He'd asked _Oakley_ to do that? Not that we had a ton of friends, but there were certainly ones that were more of my age that he could have asked, and as far as I knew didn't - unless Oakley was the only one of them to take Paul's dying charge seriously. The unhappy truth was that when your mate died, other couples who had been your good friends tended to fall away from you, whether from fear that mortality was catching or concern that you might go after their mate.

Regardless, after Paul's death and the flurry of activity for a week or month or so afterwards, I found myself very alone here - and not necessarily inclined to change that fact.

Except for Oakley.

He saw my surprise. "He did. It makes the most sense. I know the place, I know your habits - a lot of them, your likes and dislikes. I think he thought it would probably be good for the both of us." He finished off the brownie and physically turned towards me, his back against the corner of the small divan.

"You and Paul . . . you always treated me differently to any adults I knew, any of my parents' friends. You always treated me as an adult, too; you never talked down to me." His eyes remained where his hands were in his lap for a moment, then he looked up at me again. "I always felt . . . welcome here. Probably more than I did in my own home."

I smiled and it was genuine. "I'm glad you felt that way - that you feel that way. I'd be very happy to have your help, but I don't think I have enough to keep you busy all summer. I . . . " The words suddenly stuck in my throat as a wave of sorrow swept through me. I blinked hard and cleared my throat, but there was no disguising why I had paused. "I'm not going to bother with the garden this year. I just want the lawn mowed and the trimming done -"

"I'll take care of the pool for you, too, if you like," he volunteered.

"It's not even filled." I didn't mention that I could barely stand to look at it - there were too many memories of Paul and me surrounding it and in it that I was certain it would just serve as a reminder of all I had lost.

"I'll do that, too - if only for my own greedy purposes." He waggled his eyebrows outrageously and managed to coax a smile from me when few could have.

I yawned all of a sudden, covering my mouth late and laughing for the first time in a long time. "Sorry. It's really not the company."

He stood anyway, the top of his hair - like a curly pompadour - nearly grazing our low ceilings. "I'm sorry to have kept you up."

On a chuckle, I said, "You haven't - not at all. I hang around in my pajamas a lot theses days, but it's not because I sleep a lot. Exactly the opposite."

Oakley mosied towards the door but kept his head turned and his eyes on me. "Oh?"

Not sure exactly why I was confiding this to him, I nevertheless said, "Yeah, I haven't gotten a good night's sleep since . . . since he died. We were together for so long - twenty-four-seven for most of it since we both worked from home. We almost never spent a night apart, and now I - " I shrugged and somehow smiled up at him through tears, knowing it wasn't a pretty sight. "I find can't sleep without him."

The last was barely a whisper.

Becoming embarrassed quickly, I wrenched my gaze away from those azure eyes that saw entirely too much for someone his age and brushed my palm over my cheeks. The last thing I expected was for him to pull me into a hug, a very tight, very real one that wouldn't let me pretend that everything was all right when he knew it wasn't, holding me there for the longest time, rocking us both just slightly, rubbing his hand up and down my back, as if inviting me to cry on him.

I wanted to - I wanted to more than almost anything else in my life, but I just couldn't. He was Oakley. For my own sanity, I had to keep thinking of him as still being a child. I didn't want to burden him with my frightfully adult woes.

When I went to step back, I found I couldn't, but after a long beat he let me go, keeping a hold of my arms, then down to my hands, then finally my fingers and then fingertips, while I stared at my slippered feet. Oakley reached out and tipped my face up, his big thumb brushing away the tears he found there.

"You _can_ cry on me, you know. I'd like to be your shoulder, if you'll let me."

He sounded so earnest. I wished I could have taken him up on it. "Thank you, Oakley. I appreciate that."

"But you're not going to do it," he pronounced wisely.

I grimaced. "No, I'm not. You're too young to be saddled with trying to console an inconsolable middle aged housefrau -"

"Stop that!"

He seemed genuinely annoyed.

"Truth hurts?"

An eyebrow rose into those curls. "Didn't I just say stop that?" He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at me as if he was doing his best to try to intimidate me into behaving.

I ignored the image he was trying to present to me and smiled at his widened, dommish stance, which I don't think he appreciated much. "Go on with you," I said, trying to shoo him out the door.

He turned and opened it with obvious reluctance. "I'll be here early tomorrow morning. Be thinking what you'd like me to do when I get here."

I said goodbye and cautioned him to drive carefully, to which he said in a tone that was only a step away from actual anger, "I'm _not_ your son - stop trying to sound like you're my Mum."

Surprised at the venom in his tone when this was nothing different from what I'd done nearly every night he'd left us, I shut the door and leaned back against it.

I knew the fact he was trying to emphasize to me all too well. And the list of things he wanted me to give to him of things I wanted him to do _for_ me was much more likely to turn into a list of things I wanted him to do _to_ me . . . if I wasn't careful.


	2. Chapter 2

He began spending an inordinate amount of time at my place. I asked him at one point if his parents weren't going to miss him, but he told me they were in the States for the summer visiting his aunt - that that was why they had bogarted all of his time when he first came home - they were trying to fit in a summer vacation's worth of stuff into less than a week before they left, and they wouldn't be home until he'd already gone back to school.

"Why didn't you go?" I asked from my perch on one of the lounge chairs around the big pool the evening before he made that fateful - and horribly enticing - statement to me.

He was holding himself up in the water with his arms folded on the edge of the pool so he could talk to me, giving me an altogether too sexy look at his muscular arms, strong neck and that beautiful face of his, damp ringlets framing it beautifully. It was his pre-dinner swim, and, although I had done my best to avoid being near him when he swam, he had requested the honor of my company - in just those words, and with an exaggeratedly low, courtly bow. He'd even gone so far as to lead me out to the lounge chair, providing me with a glass of wine and himself with a pint of Guinness, which I had begun to stock again in deference to him, before diving into the water.

He shrugged. "Been there, done that. They're going to do all the touristy stuff I've already done. I'm not much into seeing Disneyland again."

I nodded. He was a bit old for that. "What are you going to do for the rest of the summer before school resumes?"

He looked confused. "Work here. Hang out -"

"But Oakely, love, I told you that I didn't think I had enough work for you around here for the whole of the summer."

He smiled broadly - and a little hungrily for my comfort. "Oh, there are tons of things around here that can keep me busy. Don't you worry."

I didn't. I just didn't want him to be bored hanging around me - or worse, to think that I might be one of the things he could _do_.

"It's bloody hot out today. You should join me in the pool."

I shook my head. "I'm fine, thanks."

He splashed a little water towards me. "Wouldn't you feel better if you cooled down in here with me?"

It was on the tip of my tongue to say that cooling down wasn't what I would like to do with him, but I managed to stifle the impulse. Barely.

But Oakley was not to be denied, and kept splashing water towards me playfully.

I really didn't mind getting wet, but I cautioned him that he would have been in big trouble if I'd had my iPad in my lap and he'd gotten it soaked.

"But it didn't?" he asked, effortlessly levering himself out of the pool without bothering with the stairs.

Show off.

"No - it's in the living room. I don't have any electronics on me -"

Once I told him there wasn't anything valuable around me, the big lumbering jerk came to stand right next to me and shake like a shaggy dog, which got me just that much more soaked.

"Stop being a tit, Oakley!" I yelled, but I was laughing as I did it, so it kind of ruined the effect.

With an evil chuckle, he reached down and hauled me up against him and my light summer blouse and shorts were quickly even more drenched than they had been.

His hands were everywhere on me, not groping at all but trying to press all of me to him to get me even wetter.

And he was, only not in the way he intended. At least not overtly, anyway.

Finally, unable to bear him touching me that way any longer, or being held so tightly to him, either, I said loudly, "All right, all right. You've made your point! I'll go get into my suit."

And he certainly _had_ made his point quite blatantly. It was poking indecently into my stomach, and when I turned abruptly in his arms just before he let me go with a lurch, up against the curve of my back. Big, strong hands that had been up around my shoulder blades suddenly weren't there any longer - one was splayed on my tummy, the other inadvertently capturing a breast that had been peaked for some time before the cold water hit it, but he didn't need to know that.

I pushed almost frantically against his hold and he let me go, and I practically ran to my bedroom, not sure if I was ever going to come out again. But I had to. I certainly didn't want him coming in to get me.

I found the frumpiest, ugliest suit I owned - an all black one with a completely unflattering skirt piped in white and a prefab bustline. It looked even worse than it might have on me because I'd lost so much weight.

I wouldn't be diving into the pool in this - if I did, when I came up the suit would have been around my waist - if I was lucky. I'd just have to go somewhere and get a new - just as ugly - suit to wear around Oakley, since he was insisting upon having company in the pool.

His nibs was not at all happy with my choice of garment and he let me know it the moment he saw me from his perch on the end of my lounger. "You look like my grandmother! You have other, prettier suits - I've seen you in them. Why don't you wear one of them?"

"I've lost some weight. This is the smallest size suit I own." It was a tiny lie, as lies went. I needed this one to maintain my sanity around him.

If he thought I was going to give him a fashion show, he had another thing coming. I walked to the edge of the pool and dipped my toe in. Frigid. Just like he and Paul liked it.

I wasn't paying any attention to where Oakley was, and when his arm slipped around my waist suddenly I very nearly pitched head first into the water, but that muscled arm saved me.

He had been smiling when he'd done it, but the smile ran from his face when his hands began to cup my curves - curves that were dramatically less acute than they had been before Paul died.

"Jesus, have you eaten anything at all in the past year?" he asked, sounding alarmed.

"Yes, I have," I answered staunchly, not looking up at him.

Suddenly I found myself being herded into the kitchen. Oakley got a plate down and served me up a large helping of the chicken salad I had made for us as a light, cool meal in this heat. He added a pastry and some crisps and poured me a half glass of wine then sat me down at the snack bar as if he thought I'd faint at any given moment.

"I want you to eat every bit of it, yeah?"

He must not have appreciated my patronizing smile one bit, because he repeated himself more firmly. "Every bit, or I'll feed it to you myself."

To throw myself off from reacting in the way I wanted to to this new facet of his personality, I teased, "Geez, Oakley, you must thrill all the little girls' hearts being all dominant like that."

I was unprepared for what he said then. "I've never felt dominant towards any of _them_."

I wasn't going to touch that for all the tea in England.

He got himself a plateful of dinner, too, and sat down to keep me company. The only other seat in the kitchen was at the snack bar, right next to me, and he sat with his legs spread so widely that there was no way our thighs didn't touch every few seconds or so, any time either of us moved in the least.

I had eaten about half of what he'd given me - all of the pastry, of course - I still had my priorities - and some of the chips when I stood up and brought my bowl to the sink.

"You're not done." He abandoned his own dinner in favor of coming to stand next to me to tower over and glower down at me as if he thought that was going to make me knuckle under magically just by virtue of him doing that.

But I wasn't one of the co-eds he'd obviously been cutting his D/s teeth on, and I leaned against the counter and stared right back up at him. "I've eaten more than I wanted to. More than I've eaten -" I swallowed hard " - in a very long time."

His usually sunny face darkened at that statement. "Well, that stops now, and if I have to be here to make sure you eat every single meal then I will."

"Stop that right now, Oakley." I was very serious and glared up at him. I did not want him getting the idea that he could be dominant with me.

He looked quite sternly right back down at me, and I had a feeling that his frown was way more effective than my own. "You're much, much too thin. I'm going to make sure that you eat more healthily."

"You and whose army?" I growled, narrowing my eyes at him.

"I don't need any army," he stated, the blithely rocked my world with his next sentences. "I know what the hairbrush in the cubby of your headboard is for - and it's _not_ your hair - and I know about the paddles and belts and straps and the school disciplinary cane that are all hanging on a hook in the closet, too." He saw the horror on my face and continued, "And I didn't snoop - Paul brought me in there when we were trying to declutter the house when he went on that cleaning binge couple of years ago. I think he'd forgotten entirely that they were there."

I didn't so much as flinch, deliberately clenching a mouth closed that wanted to hang open, although I was absolutely horrified to realize what he knew about my intimate life with my husband. I deliberately kept my voice extremely soft and calm. "I would be very careful if I were you, Oakley. You are very close to being disinvited from ever coming to this house again."

He looked startled and just as horrified as I felt at my little pronouncement, and I counted that as a victory and intended to press what little advantage I had while I still had it. "You have _no_ right to make rules for me, much less to actually punish me, as you are _not_ my dominant and you never will be. If you should take it into your head use one of those implements on me - or even just your hand - I will have you brought up on assault charges so fast it'll make your head swim."

I knew there was no way I could stop him from doing so if he got it in his head - he had me completely overwhelmed in regards to size and strength, and I felt I had to say something dramatic that would get his attention.

Whether or not I'd go through with that threat if he actually _did_ do that, I was ashamed to realize that I really didn't know. I wanted to think I would, but I knew I couldn't say it for sure.

His mouth was open, but nothing was coming out as he stared down at me, looking like he was fighting with himself about something, probably trying to decide whether I was serious about what I'd just said or not.

Before he could come up with anything, I continued, "I think it might be better if you left, Oakley. Take your choice of pudding with you for the ride home. But I think you need to cool off a bit. I'll see you in the morning." With that, I strode boldly into my bedroom and closed the door, setting the lock quietly and getting dressed - fully dressed - in my bathroom, which put a second locked door between us.

I hadn't heard his car leave, so when I emerged from the bathroom, I knew he was probably still in the house. As I turned on the TV, I both heard and saw him step up to the door to my bedroom, noting his shadow under the door with baited breath. I watched the doorknob but he didn't try it. He just stood there for a few seconds, then turned and left. Minutes later, I heard his car start down the long lane towards the main road and heaved a huge sigh of relief, wondering if he'd even bother to come back, and very sure I shouldn't _want_ him to come back.

But I did anyways.

He had arrived bright and early as usual this morning, and just after breakfast he caught a hold of my wrist as I was about to get up to tackle the dishes.

"I'm sorry about last night," his voice was low and his tone heartfelt, "I was just startled by how thin you've gotten, and I want to take good care of you like I promised Paul I would." He was no longer holding me, but was tracing his fingertips on the delicate skin on the inside of my wrist.

"Oh, Oakley, you're so sweet, but I'm a grown woman and I can take care of myself. Really."

His jaw jutted out stubbornly and his lips were a thin line. "It doesn't seem to me that you're doing a very good job of it."

I didn't know what to say to that - especially considering he was right - so I didn't say anything.

And then he came out with, "Besides, you were a grown woman with Paul, too, and you let him spank you."

"Oakley!" I tried to snatch my hand away from him, but he was too damned fast. My face was neon red, I knew it, and that was not my best color. I couldn't even begin to think of what to say to him. Should I deny it? Should I just order him out of my house once and for all, telling him not to come back, as much as I was - surprisingly - loathe to do that?

"I saw you over his lap once."

With that little bombshell, suddenly this small snack bar area had become entirely too much so for the two of us - he was way too close to me for my comfort.

I immediately began to rack my brain as to when that might have occurred but came up with nothing.

As if he'd read my mind, he explained, "It was the morning about four years ago when my car died just up the road from your lane and I had to walk in. I could hear you yelling, and I began to run, thinking something was terribly wrong, but then I saw you two in the garden, and I knew."

 _Don't ask him. Don't ask him. Don't ask him_.

"You knew what?"

He colored for a change. "That it was something . . . very intimate between you two and not meant for my eyes, although I couldn't look away. I was very . . . conflicted about it at first. You never acted beaten down, ever, as if he'd taken his fists to you, I never saw any evidence of bruising or anything like that or I would have beaten the shit out of him myself. It was Paul making you yell like that and because it was him I knew that you weren't in any danger. You only ever seemed so . . . so unbelievably happy with him." He sounded wistful. "And when he stopped, I saw how he hugged you and soothed you -"

I tried to play it off as him misinterpreting what was happening between the two of us. "I don't know what you think you saw or heard -"

Oakley stood to his full height, millimeters from being pressed up against me, still shackling my wrist with surprisingly gentle fingers. "I saw you bare bottomed over his lap. You were wearing those that pink nightshirt you like - the one with the tiny roses on it, and it was bunched up at your waist. Your panties were a scrap of some light color at your ankles, at first, before you kicked them off while he was spanking you. You were facing away from me. I could see his hand falling on your bottom - I could hear the crack of it from across the lawn as your skin got redder and redder - and I could hear you begging him to stop -"

"Dear God, would you stop already?" I groaned, closing my eyes on the memory. I knew exactly the incident to which he was referring - and exactly how Paul had "soothed" me afterwards, too.

He smiled down at me and despite his lightly teasing tone, I couldn't hear any censure in it at all. "You didn't use quite those words, but that was definitely the gist of it anyway."

I pushed the chair back from the snack bar, and well away from him before I stood up, surprised that he had let me go that easily, carefully _not_ looking at him as I turned my back to him.

"As I said, there were never any bruises anywhere I could see - even when you were in your bathing suit." Good Lord, was he _still_ talking? I was blushing so hard I felt faint. "Were the times you refused to swim with me when I might have seen evidence that you'd been spanked?" he asked suddenly.

The question threw me off guard. I should never even have attempted to answer it, but I was so flustered I did it automatically, without thinking. "Yes . . . no . . . I don't know. I don't remember. Possibly." I was still trying to wrestle with the idea that he had seen us that morning. When he'd appeared at the door suddenly, so soon after my punishment and . . . afterwards, Paul had tried to tell me that he couldn't possibly have, but I knew.

I _knew_.

"Where are you going?"

"To get dressed."

"You haven't had a swim yet."

"I don't care to, thank you."


	3. Chapter 3

I took my time going back. I could hear he was in the pool splashing around. When I came out, I was fully dressed.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable when I told you - you know. What I saw," he said immediately when I reappeared.

I closed my eyes, knowing my face was rapidly growing that unbecoming shade of red again, as it seemed to perpetually around him lately. "I'm not going to discuss that topic with you, Oakley. It's inappropriate."

He hoisted himself out of the pool in one fluid, graceful movement, and as he padded over to the chair he had been using, which was next to mine, to get his towel, my mind forced me to do something I had - until that moment - consciously refused to do - consider the physical differences between Oakley and my husband.

Their personalities were startlingly similar - if Oakley did still suffer from the overconfidence of youth - but in regards to their bodies, they couldn't have been much more different.

Paul had been relatively small and sickly from the moment I'd met him. We'd had a couple good years and then his chronic disease had begun getting the better of him. He had never been the strongest man - because of his illness - and he'd begun wasting away before my eyes almost from the moment we'd gotten married.

Not that I had ever, ever, ever regretted even a second of my time with him. What he lacked in muscle power he more than made up for in enthusiasm and imagination. He found ways for us to do what seemed impossible, and most of the time - especially at first - I thought I was going to die happily in his arms and the cause of death would have had to have been listed as the orgasms he unselfishly bestowed upon me.

But that was a long, dry while ago, and I had never felt the lack of intimacy quite as acutely as I did now, here, with that fine specimen of young manhood standing next to me, so close he dripped on me every time he moved.

Oakley, on the other hand, was in peak physical condition. He ran miles every morning - said it cleared his head - and I don't think I'd ever seen him physically tired in all the years I'd known him, despite the fact that Paul used to work him hard in the summer sun - lifting, toting, digging. Regardless of what my husband put him through all day, he was always fresh as a daisy, swimming further miles in the pool. For all his whipcord leanness, he had the strength and stamina of an ox, all of those youthful muscles clearly delineated with every sure movement of that lithe body of his.

It was almost enough to have me cumming just from thinking about him.

Sensing he might have been going to touch me or make some such other awkward move towards deepening our relationship, somehow, I practically skittered away from him and asked him to tackle the back garden today - which would take him further away from me, so that I wouldn't be tempted to look out the window to watch that perfect body of his every time I was bored.

Which was with growing frequency, I was ashamed to say.

Also in the name of keeping things on more neutral territory, I brought his snacks and lunch to him, begging off staying to eat with him, rather than having him come inside the house. I was getting the feeling that having a bed be anywhere near our vicinity might not be the best idea. Not that I was afraid of him - I wasn't. I just didn't want him to overstep himself.

No, that was a lie. I was very worried that he was going to do exactly that, and that I was going to knuckle under like a tadpole facing a steamroller.

"Do you want to watch a movie?"

It was after dinner and we had gathered in the living room, as had been Paul's and my habit. We watched a Sci-Fi-fest, starting with the two new Star Trek movies reboots, then segueing into _Gravity_. By the time we were done, though, it was very late.

"Would you mind if I stayed here tonight?" he asked.

 _NO! NO! That's a TERRIBLE IDEA_! my mind screamed. _HORRIBLE_!

Really. _DON'T do it_.

I hadn't offered to let him and he hadn't asked to stay overnight at all this summer, and I had wondered what I'd say to him if and when he did ask. "You'll have to make your own bed - they're stripped up there."

"That's fine," he answered, not sounding discouraged in the least.

I got him fresh sheets and a fresh set of towels. "You remember where the new guest toothbrushes are and the toothpaste?"

Oakley nodded. "I think there's still one of mine floating around somewhere in the bathroom."

We said our goodnights and he headed upstairs, but I could hear him coming down again to use the loo. Not really expecting him to come back out to the living room, I had doffed my robe and was curled up in my chair with my nondescript cotton knit nightie pulled down so that it covered my bent legs, a season at a time of _How I Met Your Mother_ repeats playing through the Roku so I didn't have to think about what I was watching, not wanting to head into my bedroom quite yet since I'd end up doing the same thing in there, just lying down, feeling lonely and bored.

And horny. I could hardly forget horny - my body wasn't about to _let_ me forget it.

When he was done, he did come out to stand in the living room, bare foot and wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms that I tried not to notice hanging almost obscenely low on his hips, revealing a clearly defined Apollo's belt that had me swallowing dryly and compulsively while trying not to stare and failing badly at it. "You're not going to bed?"

"I'm not sleepy," I said on a yawn.

He smiled at my body blatantly contradicting my words.

"I'm tired," I explained, "but not sleepy."

"How long has it been since you got a good night's sleep?" He leaned his shoulder against the doorway, arms folded over that perfect chest, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle, balancing his foot on his toes, and looking entirely too adult - too manly - for my comfort.

I tried not to notice how his every move seemed to pull the pajama bottoms tight over his crotch, revealing a part of him I shouldn't have been looking at.

Trying to concentrate on his question instead of his genitals, I realized it was something I had really refused to consider. "A year . . . or two.."

 _Or three. Or four_ , I added in my head.

Oakley's usually fair face darkened. "That's not good. Did you tell your doctor?"

I smiled. It was so cute that he apparently cared that much. "Yes, and she gave me various pills that either put me out for weeks on end or didn't do a thing for me. I don't like artificial sleep remedies. They make me feel logy for long after they should, as if I don't metabolize them well."

At that was when he'd said it, without missing a beat, completely casual as if he was telling me that he was tall. Or blonde.

Or horny.

"I can help you with that, you know."

I cocked my head at him, trying to discern whether or not he was serious. As much as I wanted to ask him how he intended to accomplish that, I thought I had a pretty good idea what he was going to say and managed to get out, "I think I'll be okay, really, but thank you," somehow instead, despite the way my body began to throb at the visions of just how he might help me began to dance through my brain.

He took a step or two towards me to stand directly in front of my chair. Then he did something I didn't see coming. He leaned gracefully down to lift me up bodily, turning with me so that he could sit in my chair, then setting me down on his lap.

I immediately began to struggle, but he wouldn't allow me to go anywhere, his arms tightening around me just enough that mine were rendered useless and my legs were still held bent not only by my nightie but by him, too, so they were also effectively neutralized.

"Relax," he encouraged softly. "I wouldn't hurt you; I hope you already know that."

"This from the man who all but threatened to spank me yesterday . . . " For the record not the best conversational gambit, considering the fact that I was supposedly trying to _forget_ what had happened then.

Although it was just about the _only_ thing I'd thought about since he'd left last night.

His hand rubbed my back lazily, with just the right amount of soothing pressure, although I was all to uncomfortably aware of the strength that lay behind his tender motions. "You of all people _know_ that there's a big difference between spanking someone and hurting them maliciously," he chided, his chin resting atop my head.

I swallowed a the huge lump that suddenly appeared in my throat and tried not to think how he knew that, much less that he knew to point it out to me in that tone.

Hadn't _I_ scolded _him_ yesterday for trying to dom me?

I pulled away - as far as he would let me which wasn't far - and gave him a disbelieving look. "Are _you_ trying to tell _me_ about D/s relationships?"

He just grinned unrepentantly at my outrage. "I just wanted you to know that _I_ know there's a difference - a big difference."

"Good for you. Let me up." My tone was as no nonsense as I could manage.

Those lean, strong arms around me neither contracted nor loosened at my words, and my body sought to betray me yet again as I yawned loudly while he continued to hold me.

It was - I was alarmed to realize - the first time in a long time I'd felt safe - really bone-deep safe, and my body desperately - more than anything I'd wanted in a very long time - wanted to collapse against him, to let him hold me tight - and much, much more. Why Oakley would inspire me to feel that way I don't know. It was how Paul had always been able to make me feel, even though he'd never been in the physical condition that would have been necessary to back it up.

Oakely certainly was. He was fully able to back up anything he said, and it seemed he had the interest in doing so, too.

But he needed to find a nice young girl, establish a good, trusting relationship with her and then try his hand at domming her - if that was what she wanted.

I didn't want him practicing his D/s techniques on me . . . at least that was what I kept trying to tell myself.

Unfortunately it wasn't taking, especially not when being held in his arms felt so damned _good_. It had been so long - so very long - since I'd been hugged or held by a man - Paul had been rendered incapable of doing so by his disease long before I lost him - it was very hard to resist the temptation to do as he'd suggested and relax.

"Oakley, let me up," I tried again, with only a bit more conviction than the first time, although it didn't get me any further than it did the last. He was determined to hold me.

He didn't answer me immediately, but instead set the chair to rocking slowly, soothingly, doing nothing more than simply keeping mere there, rubbing my back and rocking us.

I kept trying, at first, to escape him, but he gently but inexorably stayed every attempt and, in an embarrassingly short amount of time, his mere closeness, his surprisingly soothing presence got me to unwind and melt bonelessly against him when trying to overwhelm or overpower me - to dom me into it - would only have resulted in me getting angry. It was the first time I could remember since Paul had died that I had truly allowed myself to lower the myriad walls I had set up to guard myself and my bleeding, wounded heart and just . . . _be_ \- not worry about having lost Paul, not worrying about myself or the house or bills or anything.

My entire world became encompassed within his arms as the sound of his slow, deep breathing encouraged mine to synch with it.

After long moments, he tipped my head up so that he could look into my eyes, and I knew mine were deeply unfocused. "Better?"

It wasn't easy - after having let go so thoroughly - to marshal my wits about me again, I was horrified to realize. "Yes, thank you." My voice sounded foreign to even my own ears - hoarse, untried, unpracticed.

"Good."

When I would have begun to struggle against him again, he pre-empted me by standing with me in his arms and walking with me into my bedroom.

I tensed automatically. "Oakley, I -"

"Shhhh. You don't have to say or do anything. Just let me take care of you. You need to get some sleep - you're dead on your feet. I can think of a lot of different ways to get you there but none of them as pleasant as what I intend to do."

His voice was low and hypnotic and tinged with just the slightest bit of sternness, as if he'd realized he'd overstepped his bounds last night and was dialing it _way_ back.

And it was working all too well, dammit. The man was a natural - he hit just the right tone and said just the right words.

In other words, even before he'd touched me intimately, I was well and thoroughly screwed.


	4. Chapter 4

He'd already done the smart thing and had gotten me so relaxed that I couldn't imagine being physically coordinated enough to try to get away from him. When he put me on the middle of the bed, I knew I should have tried to roll to the opposite side and relative freedom, should at the very least have registered some kind of verbal protest, but I just . . . couldn't. His sure hands on my back and the way he made me feel - protected and safe - had rendered me largely incoherent, albeit against my will.

Against my mind's will, anyway, but definitely not my body's.

He had me pegged perfectly, right down the line. He didn't fall on me like some greedy, groping college boy out for a quick score. Although he had lost his pajama bottoms somewhere along the line, he didn't even try to undress me at first; he just lay stretched out beside me, half on my nightie, keeping me neatly in place up tight next to him with no hands, not that I was making any moves to get away from him anyway at that point, although I should have been.

I was amazed to realize that I could feel his erection both pressing against the side of my thigh and unfurling as it did so. I was suffused with a feeling of accomplishment - of pride that he was so turned on by me, despite how ridiculous my brain thought that idea was, as well as a not a small amount of alarm at the size of the area he was claiming as he pressed up against me.

While I was trying to come to grips with the reality of what I was learning about him - that the size I'd seen hinted at was not folds in the material of his pajama bottoms _at all_ \- he caught the hand that was trapped between our bodies, bringing it up to his mouth and kissing first the back then the palm of it, lingering there for a bit, licking his tongue over the middle and making me giggle before bestowing gentle kisses on each fingertip, then doing the same to my other hand. Then slowly, keeping his eyes on mine the entire time, he brought them together into one of his hands and lifted them well over my head by his long fingered hold on my wrists.

I - somewhat belatedly because I couldn't quite believe this was happening - began to tug against his grip and found, as I'd feared, that I had completely lost the use of my hands to him.

In fact, his arm was so long that mine were stretched as far up as they could go, and a certain amount of tension was maintained because of it that only set my nerves to humming just that much louder, that position constantly reminding me of how effortlessly he had made me feel so helpless.

"Oakley -" I frowned up at him as fiercely as I could muster.

But he gently but insistently interrupted me. "Shhhhh. Don't think, just feel."

"No, Oakely - " I meant for it to sound strong and angry, but it came out as a whimper.

A distinctly plaintive, submissive whimper, at that, and I could see that he'd picked up on my - unintentional? - intonation when his expression became even more determined.

"Yes, baby," he softly but firmly countered. "Close your eyes."

Being called "baby" by a man who was so much younger than I was should have sounded absurd to my ears, but it didn't, somehow.

I was horrified to realize that he was waiting for me to obey him, and I began to fight against his hold anew, but he kept me right where he wanted me quite effortlessly, pressing wonderfully tender kisses to my face, ending with one on each of my eyelids.

When I popped them quickly back open, it was his low, growled, "No," that convinced me to do as he said, although large parts of me fought valiantly against the impulse.

"Oakley -" I began, trying to sound somewhat parental, although my eyes remained closed nonetheless.

His lips nuzzled mine as he issued a threat that was no less real for the very mature, quiet calm with which it was delivered. "If you open your eyes again without my permission, darling, I _will_ spank you, and afterwards, if you want to call the cops on me, I'll hand you the phone myself."

Dammit, the cheeky not so little bastard was calling my bluff!

 _Where did that bold, confident - very dominant - tone come from_?! I wondered, then I realized I really didn't want to know the answer to that question. I was already aching badly enough regardless of how much I tried to fight against it, or, failing that, at least suppress it.

When I didn't say anything to his bold declaration, Oakley raised himself up on his elbow, fingers drifting down my cheek, tickling the sensitive skin of my neck on the way to the collar of my gown where it was pulled tightly against my body - the rest of it still tucked beneath him - finding its top button and undoing it easily one handed.

I immediately began to wiggle restlessly as best I could but he ignored my feeble attempts and concentrated instead on undoing every one of the small buttons that trailed down the front of my relatively short nightshirt. I literally began to shiver when his hand was above my mons, pressing gently in order to accomplish his goal.

He paused for a moment. "Are you cold?"

I couldn't speak. Could _not_ get a word out. So I just shook my head, knowing the stark truth of what I was admitting to him by doing that.

His only acknowledgement I made was his breath escaping his mouth in one long, forceful puff.

Then those fingers continued downwards, releasing the last three buttons and resting atop my thigh for a long moment before he insinuated it beneath the hem, landing just below the juncture of my thighs for a brief second before dragging it slowly, but very lightly, up the center line of my body, those knowing fingertips grazing the insides of my thighs, then the tops of my swollen folds - making me renew my useless struggle to reclaim the use of my hands - as the pieces of my gown began to fall away a bit as his hand gently disturbed its way up to my neck.

Then he reached for the top corner of material and began to peel back the side that was closest to him, completely unhurriedly, doing the same thing with the other side, leaving me, essentially, displayed nude before him.

I don't know exactly what I expected his reaction to be to the sight of my not so nubile body, but it certainly wasn't the prayerful, "I knew you were beautiful, but this . . ." I heard him swallow hard, seeing his Adam's apple bob.

He bent his head and, just as I felt my painfully erect nipple being suckled into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth, I found my voice, albeit a soft breathy one I barely remembered I owned. "Oakley, no!"

But my body made a lie of my words, arching up, wordlessly, helplessly offering him more of me to claim with his lips and tongue. He opened his mouth wider and took as much as he could, suckling strongly, breaking off only long enough to bring his fingertips up to my mouth, pressing them gently to my lips and whispering fiercely, "Open."

Automatically, unthinkingly, I did as he commanded - wanting to cringe at his "Good girl," but feeling more pride than I wanted to at his praise - finding his index and middle finger pressed insistently into my mouth where he dipped them in my own saliva - along with the barest tip of his thumb - to then put them to work on the other, lonely peak, mimicking the actions of his mouth and tongue on that captive bud - flicking, clasping, lightly pinching at it avidly.

I did my best to try to stifle reactions that flatly refused to be squelched, not really managing to have any affect at all as whimpers that started out as soft graduated quickly to louder, more insistent groans and even a growl or two of frustration that just had him chuckling softly against my temple and rededicating himself to driving me absolutely out of my mind as I tried to renew my efforts against his hold but my heart just wasn't in it any more and I'm sure I just looked as if I was writhing beneath his attentions.

And I was - frantically, mindlessly. I couldn't remain still - he was too blasted good at this, especially for someone so young.

That free hand eventually began to wander, though, giving my breast a squeeze before trailing almost possessively down over my ribs - making me try to jerk away from his touch on an explosive giggle.

"No tickling!"

His evil chuckle did nothing at all to soothe my fears. "Ah, I'll have to remember that," he teased, changing tactics in deference to that and claiming territory with his whole hand instead, resuming its descent again, and that worry fled my mind as if it had never been in favor of rapt attention to what he was doing to me.

Especially since he moved to lay his top leg between mine, which, in my writhing and restless movements had been carelessly left open enough for him to easily insert his foot between my calves, hooking it around the nearest one and inexorably wrestling it away from its companion.

I almost opened my eyes at that, but somehow managed not to, the specter of being spanked by him playing through my mind. It wasn't something I thought I could live through the thorough embarrassment of, not that I was feeling any less so about what he was doing to me now.

The leg he had captured was anchored beneath his, bent at the knee as it was from being pulled so far apart.

"I want you to do the same thing with your other leg, darling," firmly, in a tone that clearly said he would brook no disobedience. "And I expect it to _stay_ that way."

In blatant defiance, I rolled towards him instead, closing my legs over his for the barest second, and he didn't hesitate in the least in his response, his palm connecting with my exposed bottom cheeks, the loud _smack_ of it sounding just that much more impressive in the silence of the room.

Frankly surprised and not a little worried, considering how much it stung, by his response, I yelled, "Ow, Oakely, that hurt!"

He didn't say a thing but kept spanking me - in the exact same spot - until I rolled back over and, however reluctantly, did as I was told, hating the fact that I was so exposed to him, but feeling myself dripping down onto the sheets beneath us at the same time, my desire trumping my intense dislike and embarrassment in spades.

It was a few long beats before his hand found my ribs again and I knew he was taking his time, drinking in the sight of me splayed before him. Then he touched every bit of me, not just those that were of most interest. Oakley spent a lot of time running his fingers over ribs that I knew he considered to be entirely too prominent. "This stops now, baby. I never want to see you this skinny again." He sounded both furious and truly concerned. "You need to be healthy enough to handle me, and I intend to wear you out, every single time."

That vehement declaration had me taking a sharply indrawn breath that I held longer than I might have because he chose that moment to slide his hand down over my lower tummy to lay claim to the part of me that had been most private, but now was completely and utterly exposed to him.

I couldn't help it. I groaned as his fingers settled over me, the position he had put me into not allowing my body to hide itself from his touch in any way, so that his absurdly long middle finger touched both the very top of my clit with the tip of it resting crooked - almost - inside me but not quite.

He wiggled that finger experimentally and I shuddered beneath his touch.

Oakley leaned down to whisper into my ear. "You sound very close."

It had me emitting a series of very damning whimpers.

"Perfect. I've always wanted to be the cause of those lovely cries of yours as I bring you to ecstasy, and it's finally going to happen."

I was surprised when I found my hands freed suddenly as he moved to lie between my legs, broad shoulders keeping me forcibly open to him as he settled himself with a eager groan of what sounded like pure appreciation.

As much as I wanted this - and I did, every inch of my body was clamoring shamefully for more from him, for him to take me, to make me his in every way he could possibly think of, to make me offer myself to him, to surrender completely beneath him in the throes of untold orgasms - there was a stubborn streak in the back of my mind that made me still need to fight him, however weakly.

But he seemed to anticipate my reaction, more than prepared to subdue any attempt I made to thwart his intentions, accomplishing this now by simply wrapping his arms around my hips and lacing his fingers over my lower tummy, effectively immobilizing me in one smooth move.

I was lost. My hands were free, but I still couldn't get away from his gentle but firm hold - and what was more disturbing was the blatant fact that I didn't much want to.

"Open your eyes, love, and put your hands beneath you."

I didn't even think about it - my butt was still smarting much too badly to disobey him. My hands did as he asked while my eyes fluttered open immediately and latched onto his, taking in the sharp reality of where he was, of who it was that lay between my legs, his mouth centimeters from anguished, aching, fevered flesh that craved his attentions as surely as my lungs craved air.

As I watched him helplessly, and he watched me avidly, he stuck his tongue out, broad and flat and wet and warm, and dragged it, with excruciating slowness, over my completely exposed clit.

It was very nearly all I needed. My body jerked and arched as I panted and heaved and moaned, my hands gripping the sheet so tightly my nails nearly ripped through the material.

"Bloody hell, did you cum?" he asked in amazement.

"N- no," I barely breathed.

"Damn, you _are_ close."

That seemed to prompt him to change his approach a bit, leaving one hand splayed between my hips to keep me in place while the other travelled up from the very bottom of my groove to swirl itself around the entrance to my quim.

That, too, had me offering myself to him in the most lewd fashion possible, although he seemed content to simply tease me with the possibility that I could be filled by those two digits.

"Oakley!" I almost yelled finally.

"Yes?" he answered mildly.

"Stop teasing me, you little fucker!"

He tsked at me, a broad, mischievous grin on his face. "Such language. My virgin ears!"

A purely animalistic growl passed my lips before I could squelch it.

Suddenly, I got my wish and I found myself completely and utterly full of those fingers, to the absolute hilt as he fucked them into me - hard.

He continued to slam into me powerfully, his own husky rumble reaching my ears. "I was going to be gentle with you, this first time between us. You're so small and delicate I don't want to hurt you." He leaned down as he continued that punishing rhythm and engulfed my clit with his lips, flicking that tender bud mercilessly for a long moment, then pulling back again - the tease. "But I'm beginning to think that that's not what you need."

He alternated periods of pressing his tongue over the most sensitive spot on my body - while his fingertips curled against the other within me as they pumped fiercely into and out of me - dragging it over me, rubbing and flicking and grinding it against me with times when he'd lift his head away from me to catch my eye and talk to me, his voice deepening and becoming rougher - although somehow still remaining somewhat gentle, almost sympathetic - each time.

"You need a firm hand - in more ways than one. You _crave_ it - you _need_ to be punished - _hard_ and _frequently_ \- the same way you _need_ to be _fucked_."

That time he only used the very end of his stiffened tongue to worry my erect bud, dancing on the very tip of it for long, agonizing moments while I moaned and keened and almost sobbed all at the same time.

"You need your pleasure to be tightly controlled - to live always on the edge of completion, your nipples and your clit constantly swollen and craving my attentions, never knowing when - or if - you'll be allowed to cum."

When his mouth returned to me, I knew it was going to be pretty much the last time. "Oakley," I barely breathed. "Oakley, please."

"Yes, love?" he asked, his mouth still pressed against me.

I could only get out a one word plea, not really knowing if he'd understand it and knowing I couldn't really explain my need to him if he didn't. "Curls?"

A broad smile spread across his face. "Yes, of course, baby."

Finally able to do something I'd wanted to do since we'd met - if I was honest with myself - my hands came down to delve into those beautiful golden curls, clenching them rhythmically as I finally allowed myself to yield - truly yield - to him and the pleasure he was bringing to me.

There was no more fight left in me.

"And I'm the one who's going to do all of that for you, angel," came his hoarse promise, murmured against the center of me that he was claiming.

He had _won_.

When those lips closed around me again and he began to suckle and tease my throbbing bud at the same time, I was completely overtaken. Usually I knew when the end was imminent, and although I knew I was very close, this snuck up on me and I did what I usually did because I knew I could.

I screamed - a full throated, long, loud scream that seemed to startle Oakley at first, as if he was going to tell me to quiet down but then remembered how remote we were out here, and he quickly rededicated himself to forcing me to ride his lips and tongue, eagerly coaxing every hard won spasm out of me until I tried to beg him to stop, my voice completely blown and therefore barely audible, but he wouldn't have it.

My body - still rolling and writhing, my hips still boldly offering up my secrets to him, he met the challenge eagerly, not easing off, not allowing me to be satisfied just once, but driving me relentlessly, skillfully to my second, and then my third orgasm in a row, fingers buried in his curls, sometimes trying to pull him away, other times using those floofy ringlets to trying to grind his face into my cunt as I mindlessly sought my release.

After a fourth loud culmination, Oakley pulled away from me and I grasped after him, not wanting to lose his lovely warmth and all of that stimulation, every inch of me still greedily throbbing and aching, unbelievably still not yet quite sated.

Oakley wasn't idle. He hitched my legs up over the tops of his shoulders, so that my knees bracketed his neck, driving himself into me to the hilt in one powerful surge.

I didn't like the vulnerability of this position one bit but my attempts to extricate myself were belated and with his weight pressing down on me, my legs rendered entirely useless by their position, I wasn't going anywhere until he allowed it.

Beyond that, I was so suddenly full of him that I could think - I could feel - nothing but him, keening long and low at first, my body spasming helplessly around him, trying to come to some kind of accommodation of his long, thick presence within me and failing badly as every single bit of my insides felt invaded and stretched to its breaking point, right at the doorstep of discomfort, and I found I wasn't at all too proud to beg. Something about being put into this terribly defenseless position, held there, helplessly pegged by him - in particular - in the most blatant sense of the word, nagged at me for some reason and I wanted _out_ of it.

"No, Oakley, please, my legs." My voice was very hoarse and nearly inaudible, but I knew he heard me because he stopped cold, still buried deep within me, concern written all over his face and I could tell he was seconds from dismounting.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked.

I frowned. He wasn't, really; he was just making me feel . . . much too vulnerable, too thoroughly possessed, but I would bet if I told him he was that he'd let me out of this absurdly exposed position. I opened my mouth to say a hearty "Yes!", but something stopped me. I didn't really want to lie to him.

As I wrestled with my conscience, I watched the realization of just why I had stopped him dawn over his face.

Surprisingly perceptive bastard that he was.

And then he lifted his hips away from me, leaving my body entirely, and I thought I had won without actually having to lie.

But I was wrong.

Because then, with his eyes glued with the slightest hint of triumph in them to mine, his next move was to snap himself into me with every bit of his strength, to the absolutely hilt, his balls slapping against my bottom - and he never let up that pounding rhythm - not once from that point on.

And my legs remained exactly where he had put them the entire time, even when he reached between us, still watching my face avidly as he did so, and began to worry my aching, ultra sensitive little bump, whispering, "Cum for me, babygirl."

Why did him using endearments like that - as if he was older than I was instead of the reverse - practically have me orgasming on the spot? It was embarrassing. It was humiliating.

It was un-fucking-believably hot.

Seconds later, I obeyed him - forced into absolute mindlessness by his cock and his fingers and his knowing smirks and his voice and his lips . . .

Him. All of him had every coherent thought fleeing me as if from a burning building.

He knew me entirely too well, somehow he knew exactly what buttons to push - how hard and for how long, and, worse than that, exactly what to _say_ to me, which had always been a huge weakness of mine.

I flew apart beneath him, trying to scream again but my voice wasn't capable of it any more, _because_ of him, so I had to settle for agonized squeaks and cries and - in the end - sobs.

He reached his own end seconds later, screaming my name multiple times as he strained over me, then again, only a little less vociferously, into the pillow beside my head as he collapsed into it and down onto me, his hips continued to jerk and press himself into and reach for the tip top of me as he spilled himself uncontrollably into my depths.

I don't know how long we lay there. It could well have been hours for all I knew, panting and sweating all over each other, bodies still twitching pleasurably occasionally. I knew my pussy would be throbbing and contracting for - well, probably long hours afterwards, considering how hard I had cum.

Oakley seemed to come to his senses with a start. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm too heavy for you -"

I wrapped my arms around him and he allowed me to hold him in place - I had no illusions that I was any match for his strength. "No, please don't worry about that. This is almost my favorite part."

He grinned at my "almost". "I just don't want to hurt you."

"And I don't care if you do," I out and out pouted. "I love this part of the intimacy."

He gave me a pointed look, nonetheless. "Am I hurting you?"

I purse my lips out ridiculously far, my jaw clamped tightly shut. The truth of it was that my thighs and hips hurt from his weight, not that I was going to tell him that. But my silent pout was all the answer he needed and he rolled off me, but took me with him, spooning himself around me so completely that there was no part of my body that wasn't completely surrounded and touched by his, each hand claiming a breast.

Dear God, it felt almost criminally good to be held like this by him, and I was more exhausted than I could remember being in a very long time. I had no doubt he would achieve his goal of getting me to sleep tonight.

As if he knew where my mind would begin to wander if I was allowed to begin thinking again, and he intended to prevent that from happening for as long as he could by pressing one of his knees between mine then simply lifting his leg - and mine - to hold mine apart enough that he could easily reach a hand down - while the other arm remained wrapped tightly around me, holding my arms clamped to my sides so that there was nothing I could do to stop him - to lazily begin to drag the very end of his middle finger ever so lightly, around and only occasionally over the top of that little bit of flesh that was, at first, quite reluctant to be touched.

My entire body tensed and jerked, but he ignored it, nuzzling at my neck.

"I want one more from you, then I want you to go to sleep," he whispered, nibbling at my earlobe. "And I'm not going to allow you to say no to me, this time or ever again."

I almost snorted that he hadn't allowed me to do any of that the entire evening, so why should now be any different? But his deeply growled words had me practically contracting already as he had dipped down to my entrance, which was just slightly sore from how aggressively he had taken me, to scoop up some of my still very copious drippings and bring it back to drench my clit.

Then he used his little finger and thumb to spread me further open, forcing that gem out of its little enclosure, to lay the big pad of his finger directly on top of it and began to move in slow, exquisitely gentle circles.

A stark, startled breath hissed in between clenched teeth. My first instinct was to try to close my legs, but I couldn't.

"No, babydoll," he chided. "I won't allow you to close your legs until you've cum for me again."

In a humiliatingly short amount of time I could no longer contain my need to moan at what those torturous fingers of his were doing to me. "Mmmmmm . . . ahhhhhhhh . . . Oooooaaakkklllleeeyyyy!"

Dear God this man - and I had to concede that he was a man - no boy could make love to me - could handle me - in this adroit, adept a manner - was going to be the death of me!

My heartfelt groans were met with a soft chuckle. "Yes, sweetie. Give over to me. Give yourself to me again. I will have your pleasure, one way or the other."

That softly expressed sentiment - just shy of a threat - made me shudder in his arms, and his slickened finger quickened over me. My strength somewhat renewed, I began to act contrarily to his urging, to try to actively fight him, neither my mind nor my body sure that I could survive another orgasm at his hands. But he merely contracted his arms and that one strong leg, subduing my attempts with ridiculous ease as his finger kept up its steadily increasing pace, never once missing a beat.

I could feel the inevitability of my defeat very early on, so exhausted from my previous efforts that I couldn't even begin to put up a real fight against it. I was forced to hold almost completely still for it as he dragged that finger up over me, repeating just the same intricate pattern of movements that rasped across the sensitive tip then around territory where the sensations he was creating were less acute, over and over inexorably.

Seconds before that curled live wire exploded within me, he whispered into my ear, "The only way to stop me, love, is to give me what I want from you."

Only a few beats later, he had it. I bucked and writhed and hurled myself every way I could - all without being allowed to move an inch as he continued to stimulate me, relentlessly milking every single last spasm from me.

I could feel the hard rod of his erection where it lay along my cleft, a few scant centimeters from where it most desired to be, but Oakely didn't acknowledge it in the least. He leg go of my leg, still keeping me wrapped up tightly even as he turned me around to face him. "Sleep, lovely."

He gathered me to him, holding me deliciously tight against him, and I fell asleep instantaneously to the feeling of his dick pulsing eagerly against the outside of my quim.


	5. Chapter 5

I awoke abruptly as he slid into me. I don't know if I was gushing less than I usually did around him or what, but his size just about killed me this time - scraping against my insides in a very not nice way - and, to my horror, I burst into tears at the sheer discomfort of it.

I'd never seen Oakley move so fast. He was off me in an instant, and, to his great credit, he didn't just sit there like a lump as lot of men would and look at me as I cried like they had no idea what the fuck to do about it. His first action once he'd left me was to gather me to him, into arms that held me gently against him.

He was so apologetic that he was almost babbling, sounding more like the young man he was than the confident, lovingly dominant man he'd been last night. "Oh, Christ, did I hurt you? I _did_ hurt you. I'm so, so sorry."

It was lovely being rocked and held in those strong arms - and I was infinitely more aware of just how strong he was now, up close and personal - despite the uncomfortable ache between my legs that was still present even though he'd withdrawn.

Ruthlessly grabbing a hold of myself because I felt so horrible making him feel bad, I said, "Oakley, it's okay. You didn't know."

He sighed exasperatedly at himself. "I should have, though."

I detached myself from him, although he was quite reluctant to relinquish his hold, deliberately reversed our positions so that I was cradling him. "How could you? Normally I'd be fine. But Paul and I . . . "

I realized with horror in my heart that I hadn't thought about my dearest husband since Oakley had appeared after his evening ablutions to ask why I wasn't in bed and had proceeded to relentlessly distract me with that gorgeous body of his.

For the entire rest of the _night_!

And he was accomplishing that not so easy feat again right now. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he reassured, obviously prompted by my abrupt silence in the middle of my sentence.

"No, honey, I do. You should -" I could barely believe I was saying this, but it was the truth. "You should know."

He moved a bit away from me so that he could look into my eyes as I spoke, reaching behind him to grab the box of Kleenex that was ever present in whatever room I was in. I had to smile at his thoughtfulness and was inordinately happy when he smiled back.

I took a Kleenex preemptively, and began, my voice still hoarse from last night and further constrained by the subject matter. "Paul - Paul couldn't, at all, those last few years." I looked at Oakley to see if he took my meaning and could tell by his dusky blush that he did. "And he was truly sick enough that he didn't have much . . . interest, either, so other . . . techniques were out, too." I squirmed with an entirely different discomfort than I had just experienced, but forged on. "It had been . . . " I had to think, ". . . about five years for me . . . until last night."

"Fuck. And I took you like a rutting bull. I'm _so_ sorry." He looked truly distraught again, refusing to meet my eyes.

I was smiling ruefully, though as I reached out and touched his leg comfortingly, amazed to see something rising impressively beneath the sheets at just that generic contact. "That's a completely apt description, but I wouldn't change a thing about anything you did."

His head came up in surprise to meet my gaze.

I put my hand tentatively on his bare chest, the absent thought hitting me suddenly that, throughout our adventures last night, I had barely touched _him_ at all. "I'm not telling you this to make you feel bad, please, Oakley. I just want you to understand why I think I'm kind of . . . out of commission right now."

He sighed but I could see that he had relaxed a lot at my explanation. Then he sat up and took me back into his arms. "Are you all right? I mean, is there anything we can do - anything I can do - to help?"

He'd asked the question even though he had colored quite brightly while doing so, which I found incredibly endearing.

"No, I'll be right as rain soon enough, I should think. It's not as if Paul and I hadn't . . ." How could I possibly be blushing this hard? I was a full grown woman who had lead an interesting and varied sex life - with and without Paul. I felt like a schoolgirl with Oakley for some strange reason, yet I soldiered on when I probably should have just kept my mouth shut. "Well, he was always kind of sickly and never quite as . . . vigorous as you . . . " Finally my good sense - and sense of decorum - overcame my ability to speak.

Oakley smiled at my discomfort then looked a bit sheepish. "You might not believe me after last night, but I _can_ be gentle with you."

"Of that I have absolutely no doubt. You've always been very careful of me, very thoughtful and helpful."

He scowled. "You make me sound like a Boy Scout."

I frowned back at him, barely able to suppress a smile. "I don't think there's anything in the Boy Scout oath about rutting like a bull over an old lady -"

Seconds later, I found myself pressed not onto my back as I might have expected, but on my tummy instead, one horribly hard, strong arm found its way across my back as if it had been there untold times before to hold me down while his huge right hand claimed every bit of my behind at once as it lay there quite possessively. As he spoke, he swatted - powerfully and painfully, each effort landing solidly and distinctly from any of the others. "I don't want to hear you say anything negative about your age again, or you'll find yourself right here - or over my lap or the back of a chair or the sofa _or_ over my knee in public if that's what it takes - every time. I don't think of you as old in the least. You're beautiful - you have a delicacy about you that makes me want to fuck you into the mattress and, at the same time, curl myself around you and protect you even from my own dirtiest urges." He colored at his own almost poetic words, then frowned fiercely, adding, "And I _don't_ want to hear you insulting yourself like that. Am I making myself completely understood, _young_ lady?"

Damn, I'd've been able to reply in the affirmative with a straight face and have saved myself a world of hurt if he hadn't added that highly unlikely, otherwise chiding endearment, at which I emitted a scornful snort.

Not a smart idea when one is naked on one's stomach with a very determined - and determinedly dominant - young man's hand resting on flesh that had already been nicely singed by said hand.

He didn't stop again, though, until I was just beginning to sob, and I knew without having to see it that my butt was neon red. I was uncomfortably familiar with the feeling, and he had achieved it in an alarmingly short amount of time.

Horrified at the tears that trailed down my cheeks, I asked accusingly as he gathered me back against him, "I thought you didn't want to hurt me?!"

Oakley captured my chin in his hand, forcing me to look into his eyes. "Stop that. You already know that I know they're not at all the same thing, and you're not going to be able to guilt me into not spanking you when I think you need it."

He sounded as if he intended that this would go on for quite some time, but I had my suspicions about just how long Oakley was going to remain interested in me. He was a young guy and not, as far as I knew from what I'd overheard him talking with Paul about - although granted that _was_ years go - much interested in long term relationships - and long term to him seemed to be anything more than a weekend or two.

So I'd already decided to give him the next few days, but would shield my heart carefully - as best I could - against the inevitable letdown that would come after that, when he saw some cute young thing at the mall or while he was out with his friends, and he came to tell me it was over.

With that thought prominent in my head, I pushed him onto his back suddenly - surprising him, which would be the only way I'd be able to accomplish that task without his cooperation - and lay my head on his chest, looking up at him.

It had become a bit of a tradition - almost a rule - with Paul that there was something very specific that I did for him after I was punished, one that I was only too happy to continue with Oakley.

"May I pleasure you with my mouth, Sir?" I asked, sounding less like myself than Kathleen Turner, somehow. Where had that low, sultry voice come from?

His eyes went comically round and his mouth fell open. I wasn't sure whether it was the offer of a blow job or my calling him "Sir".

His answer was almost too soft and breathy at first. "Yes, please." Then I literally watched him transform as his face became more serious, his posture somehow more . . . proper and erect even though he was in the exact same position as before and his next words were pure dom, delivered in a tone that oozed sex. "You may."

I knelt next to him and kissed him, deeply, fully, cupping his face and feeling the darkish stubble there, wondering how it would feel between my legs. Paul had always kept himself smooth, not wanting to abrade me there, where he had often dwelt for quite some time, especially early on in our relationship.

I had a feeling that Oakley wouldn't be quite so concerned, and that wasn't necessarily such a bad thing.

When I left off kissing him, I began to lick and flick and suck my way down his naked body, claiming every part of him in the way he had done to me last night, dwelling at that sensitive spot just beneath his ear, laving and nibbling down the elegant line of his arched neck, pausing to suck on his prominent Adam's apple, to just where his neck became collarbone, then across to the big pad of shoulder muscle and down his arm to sit back and hold his hand up to my mouth, my eyes glued to his, tonguing his palm playfully then assiduously washing each finger, smelling myself on some of them as I took each of them into my mouth to withdraw them very slowly as I rolled my tongue around them then flicked and nipped at the tips in a preview of what I was going to do to his cock.

Oakley looked positively slack jawed and I wondered if he was going to cum right then and there.

But he didn't.

I kissed my way back up the oft forgotten and quite sensitive inside of his arm to repeat the same caresses to the other one, with much the same result. As I began my descent again at his collar bone, I murmured against his smooth, tanned skin, "Sir?"

No response. I wasn't sure if that was because he didn't recognize the title or he simply couldn't respond.

I asked again in a supplicating tone, careful not to allow any hint of admonishment. "Sir?"

That seemed to do it. "Oh, uh, yes, love?"

"You . . . " For some reason I was seized by embarrassment suddenly, and what should have come out as a strong suggestion ended up being almost a muddled, doubt filled plea that I immediately wished I could take back. "Uh, you can - " I took a breath. "You can . . . touch me . . . you know, while I do this." My eyes flickered to his and then away, feeling absurdly like a nervous teenager on her first real date, somehow. "If - if you want to."

I caught his broad smile out of the corner of my eye and returned to my delicious task - and I don't think one or both of his hands was ever _not_ on me somewhere, somehow, for the rest of the time I was focused on him. He in particular seemed to be fascinated by my ass, which I would have preferred he'd've stayed away from, frankly, since it was quite tender to the touch and probably would be for a while.

But he didn't seem to pay my hisses and sharply indrawn breaths any mind at all - as a dom was wont to do - as the same hand that had made it as red and sore as it was began to rub and pat it less than gently, which encouraged me to move out of the range of his long arms, which took me a bit, unfortunately. I couldn't do this well without paying homage to all of him, stopping at the impressively sculpted plates of his pecs to lick every inch of them, avoiding his nipples completely until I heard a decidedly impatient growl from above.

Even then, I intended to take my time getting to what he wanted, teasing and tantalizing and enjoying every second of it.

Oakley let me know he'd had enough by reaching down to cup the back of my head, guiding it firmly to his nipple and leaving it there as I let the tip of my tongue flick that tiny bud mercilessly.

I was surprised at his reactions, which were very nearly orgasmic. I thought he was going to cum before I got a chance to do what I so desperately wanted to for him.

"Your nipples are very sensitive, Sir."

"They are. I -" He stopped abruptly and I looked up at him. He looked as if he wanted to say something but couldn't bring himself to, somehow, that beautiful face of his bright red.

"Please tell me, O - Sir. You are as safe with me as I . . . ." I hesitated a bit, then drew my courage to me and finished what I had intended to say, ". . . as I feel I am with you. There should be no secrets between lovers. I want to hear everything about what you like in order to pleasure you better."

He sat up suddenly, the fingers of both hands delving into my hair, bringing my lips forcefully to his. "Yes," he agreed, kissing me fiercely, thoroughly, then leaning back a bit and groaning, "I want to know all of your secrets, every little thing you've ever _thought_ of that's turned you on."

"Well, I want the same candor from you, please. Sir."

He lay back, a hand still in my hair, using it to guide my mouth back to his nipple. "I've always felt kind of . . . freakish . . . because of how sensitive my nipples are. They're too much so . . . for a man."

I could tell just how hard that was for him to admit and would have moved up and hugged him, but he held me too fast.

"I haven't much let anyone spend much time there because of it."

"I think that's wonderful. There's no shame in enjoying your body - no matter how that manifests itself, and it's different in everyone. It doesn't make you any less a man," I reached down to wrap my fingers around his huge, sheet-tenting erection as I did so to emphasize my point, "in any way. _Nothing_ could, Sir, believe me. You are _every inch_ a man, and not just here. Nothing you desire could make you any less so in my eyes."

When I finally left his nipples, he was arching beneath me, hips thrusting, seeking my warmth.

I tried to bury my face in his stomach, but his abs were too rock hard and unforgiving to really do that. It was like pressing my face against the abs on a marble statue, so I settled for licking every rippled, ripped inch of them, moving a bit lower to trace the prominent, twin ridges of his Apollo's belt, then, assiduously avoiding the area that was poking insistently against my chest, I treated each of his long, muscular legs much as I had his arms, nibbling at his instep and tickling the backs of his knees with my tongue.

Finally, I crawled between those legs, positioning my head just above a cock that was flexing and bobbing, surging upwards occasionally, pumping itself into the air, all purple and swollen and desperate with need. Looking down at it, I was amazed that I had been able to take him at all. He had the biggest endowment I'd ever seen, and I felt no small flush of pride that I was able to bring him to this point, completely unable to stop myself from flicking my tongue out to lick the cum that dribbled out of the very tip, savoring the saltiness of him on my tongue.

I thought he was going to lose it right there as his hips jerked violently and his breath hissed in through his teeth. I was of a mind to tease him some more, wetting every inch of him thoroughly - not lingering anywhere - then moving back a bit to blow my hot breath over him..

That was it. That was all he could stand, apparently, because the next thing I knew, he had reached down with both hands and was using the hair at the back of my head to guide me to the cock his hand was holding away from his body. "No more." His voice was hoarser and deeper than I'd ever heard it. "I want to spurt my cum against the back of your throat. _Now_."

I sat up, to get a better angle, pressing my pursed lips against the head of his cock and forcing him past them, keeping them taut and tight around him, sucking my cheeks in to add to the sensation of him being surrounded by my warm wetness, following the amazing length of him all the way down and ruthlessly tamping back my urge to cough around him, forcing myself to relax enough to take every single bit of him.

When I would have dallied there, flicking and cupping him with my tongue, I found my hair pulled up and he used that grip to establish the rhythm he needed. I let him guide me completely, let him use me, giving myself over to him in this excruciatingly intimate way.

Submitting myself to him in a manner that had me gushing between my legs.

It wasn't very long before I could tell that he was extremely close. I had been cupping and gently rolling his heavy balls from the start, and they were snugged up tight under his cock. On the last trip up, I swirled my tongue furiously against the underside of the head of his dick, feeling a tremendous sense of satisfaction when he cried out and I felt his cream flowing down the back of my tongue.

He groaned several more times, sounding as if I was killing him, quickly descending into animalistic growls as he maintained a hand in my hair, eventually using it to stop me from moving any more.

His big hand fell away from my head and I crawled up the side of him to lay my head on his chest, drawing lazy circles on his abdomen as his growls died slowly down but he continued to pant for some time, one hand still at home in my hair and his other arm flung over his eyes.

When his breath quieted, I wondered if he'd fallen asleep - which I would have been perfectly fine with.

But he hadn't, as I found out abruptly a few moments later when he turned onto his side suddenly and I slid off him, then found myself trapped against him, my wrists quickly caught at the small of my back as he used his other hand to tip my chin up so that I had to look into those fathomless blue eyes of his. "I hope this isn't just a fling for you, because I can't imagine ever getting enough of you, ever letting you go." His hand tightened on my wrists, pressing them into my back and tugging down a bit, so that I had no choice but to arch my back, pressing myself even closer against him as his free hand roamed, open palmed, down my body. "I could happily spend the rest of my life learning your body, listening to your whimpers, teasing and tasting you."

I could see stark, triumphant possession in his eyes, foremost, but behind that was the truth of the naked sincerity of his words and I felt tears prickling in my own eyes because of it.

But when his palm squeezed my breast from the very bottom, nimble fingers climbing to the crest and plucking at a nipple that had been hard since last night, my eyes closed automatically on their own at the waves of bliss that flooded through me.

"No, angel. Look at me. I want your eyes on mine."

Swallowing hard at his tone, I whispered, "Yes, Sir."

That brought the hint of a smile, but it was gone in a flash in favor of a much more intently dominant look.

He played with my breasts, holding me there, immobile, until I was moaning constantly, until I was arching my back almost painfully, offering myself up to him, my hips rolling into his, into an erection I was amazed he was able to sport again so quickly.

When his fingers worked their way down, between my legs, I gasped as he stroked his finger over the very crest of my clit for the first time that day and I couldn't help but see the huge smile of satisfaction that lit his face. I hoped he would continue to stroke me, but his finger delved past my pulsing little bit to hover over the path to my passage, dipping gently beyond it to gather my honey on the end of his finger.

"Does this hurt?" he asked tentatively, sounding quite worried at the possibility and thus less like the dominant lover I was getting to know. And then, again, I watched his demeanor change as he consciously assumed the mantle of the role he sought to fill with me - and for me. "Rule number one," he began, continuing even though I frowned deeply, chafing a bit at the idea of him making them for me, although that was part and parcel of what any good dom did, "is that you are required to tell me if something I do to you hurts, even a little."

I grinned. "Well, then expect an earful the next time you spank me."

He did not look amused and I had the sudden, unfamiliar - and considerably disconcerting - urge to straighten up and fly right. "You _know_ what I mean."

His scolding tone made my whole lower body contract - all on its own - damn him! He was entirely too good at this!

That finger had stopped, and he gave me an expectant look that had me confused.

"When I speak to you, especially to give you a rule, I expect you to respond to me properly, love."

Again with that voice - his tongue might as well have been against my clit rather than in his mouth. "Yes, Sir," I whispered breathlessly, hoping that was what he wanted to hear, and, feeling a bit uncertain, I automatically lowered my eyes.

His stern expression softened somewhat and his slickened finger moved back to where I wanted it to be and began to circle and press and worry my clit firmly, almost demandingly.

"Eyes on me," he corrected immediately.

Mine darted up instantly, and the soft, apologetic, "Sorry, Sir," slipped from my lips without any thought.

That seemed to please him, but not enough to keep him from warning, "If I have to remind you again, you're going to get another spanking."

Oh, dear God - what had I gotten myself into? I had a sudden flash of insight that this was going to be much more than I bargained for. Being submissive to Paul and submissive to Oakely were already proving to be very different things. As much as I knew he wanted to be everything he knew I needed, Paul was very often too tired or uncomfortable to discipline me, and I had, as a result, gotten away with murder. I had a feeling that Oakley - who was sharp as a tack and apparently highly motivated - I wasn't going to be able to slide anything by him, and as a result, I wasn't going to be sitting very comfortably very often.

And that also had me contracting.

Only this time he felt it, too, but unfortunately it didn't prompt him to do what I would have preferred, which was that he stop teasing and bring me off already. Instead, it added fuel to his growing authoritative tendencies.

And I didn't think they needed much at all in the way of encouragement based on how he was already taking to the position!

But when he spoke again, my eyes locked with his by his own order, his finger still roving lazily over the point of my ultimate pleasure, his commands were husky with his own desire, that rich, low tone flowing over me like hot caramel over a scoop of ice cream.

"You are not allowed to cum without my permission. You are not allowed to touch yourself without my permission. You are _never_ allowed to deny me access to this luscious body of yours."

I know he saw me bite my lip at his description of me, but at least I was able to save my bacon by not rolling my eyes or snorting.

I may be old, but I can definitely learn new tricks, especially to save myself from his bedeviling palm!

But what I didn't do was remember the order he'd just given to me and respond to him quickly enough, because the next thing I knew, that big hand was removed from my pussy to land squarely on my behind - and not just the once.

"Yes, Sir, yes, Sir, yes, Sir!" I chanted, hoping it would magically make him stop.

No such luck.

He held me still with ridiculous ease as he lit into me for the second time that morning. I could only hope - although I severely doubted - that it would be the last time.

When he had set thorough fire to every inch of my flesh, he stopped, using the same hand beneath my chin again to hold me still as he kissed away my tears, whispering almost reverently, "You are almost as beautiful when I spank you as you are when I bring you off. You're usually so reserved -"

I chuckled at that description of me, since I would never have applied it to myself.

" - well, you are around me, anyway, and I love being able to push you past that. To make you wild and uncontrolled - freed yet tamed by my hand - or my lips - or my cock . . . "

His hand was the culprit this time, those fingers having found their way back to me, dipping with heartbreaking gentleness into the as yet still tender source of my juices, then brushing insistently over a clit that had - ashamedly - only increased in size and sensitivity as a result of his discipline.

And, of course, he noticed.

"I think that - despite your protests - someone thoroughly _enjoys_ being spanked."

With that, the hand that had held my wrists behind my back released them to descend to the bottom that had been so recently roasted and squeezed a hot, rounded cheek, making me catch my breath at the pain his action inspired - I couldn't even get a moan out, it caught me so unaware.

"Don't you dare move your hands, my darling," he cautioned against my neck. "I want you just like this."


	6. Chapter 6

"Y-yes, Sir," I whispered tentatively.

And the torture began in earnest as he continued to worry and pluck at my clit while, occasionally, and I never knew when, a crisp, hard swat forced me towards him as I did my best to avoid it, although there was really no hope for it - there was nowhere to go. The contrasting uncomfortable sensations set me back a few pegs each time, but he quickly and easily made them up, leaning down to suckle at my nipple while never easing up the rhythm of those fingers as they claimed my most sensitive spot, flowing over them lightly sometimes, more forcefully others, but not sticking to any pattern for very long.

I have no idea how long it went on - I lost track of everything - lost myself in what he was doing to me, in the mind blowing contrast of pain and pleasure that he was so expertly - and effortlessly - subjecting me to.

"O - O - Sir, Sir, please!" I begged finally, driven beyond any embarrassment I might have felt at doing so.

"Yes, my darling?" he breathed against the underside of my breast.

"Please - _please_!" I don't think I'd ever been so desperate for an orgasm in my life as I was then.

Oakley straightened back up and I barely had the presence of mind to fix my eyes on his when he did, as I was expected to, but somehow I remembered.

"Don't be afraid to ask me - respectfully, of course - for what you want, baby, and _perhaps_ I will allow it," he teased.

My heart sank at the idea - and my clit throbbed in double time - as I was frankly stunned to realize that he might well have brought me all this way just to deny me what I didn't think I could live another second without.

I let all pretense and preconceptions about how I felt I should act with Oakley dissolve away from me as I gazed up at him. I wasn't Paul's wife. I wasn't how ever many distressing years older than he was. I wasn't worried about seeming like a foolish old lecherous woman for having become involved with a much younger man.

I was simply _a_ woman - _his_ woman - and he was my dom, the man I would allow to make intimate decisions for me and set parameters that I would be bound to obey. And just the mere fact that he would even _begin_ to act in a manner that got me to think about him that way meant that I owed him a certain level of respect.

So it was with a surprisingly clear conscience that I asked him - no, I _begged_ him - in all seriousness, "Please, Sir, please? May I cum? Please?"

I think he grew several inches in front of my eyes, as if he had come to the realization of just how deep he had been able to take me, which was absolutely amazing on such relatively short, intimate acquaintance, and considering the depth and breadth of my previous relationship.

For a long moment he said nothing, as if he was savoring the moment, his expression unreadable, but very mature - not triumphant or even really proud, but instead reflecting the appropriate gravity of the situation.

And when it softened, only a bit, he leaned down to kiss me, his palm settling over my butt and squeezing rhythmically as his fingers continued to work their magic between my legs. He kept his forehead pressed to mine, breathing softly, "Yes, you may."

I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding, but it proved to be premature. He wasn't finished.

As he watched me avidly, my eyes fixed to his, taking in every single thing about even my most minute reactions to him as I climbed higher and higher at his behest, until the rising pitch of my cries alerted him to the fact that I was seconds away from the crest of that tsunami.

And then he murmured, "But _don't_ get used to it."

I couldn't help it. I was too far along to be indignant, to rail against the imposition of his will. Instead, what he'd said sent me over the brink he'd had me at for an inordinate, inhumane amount of time, and I screamed. He held me tight throughout, not letting me flail or buck or writhe much as he refused to stop molesting me, bringing me to peak after incredible, exhausting, mind numbing peak. I don't think I stopped contracting the entire time, and the strength of the spasms didn't begin to fade until I was about to open my mouth to beg him to _stop_.

But he did so without my having to ask - he was a very good student when he wanted to be, and he was rapidly becoming an expert at reading me and my responses. He brought me down gently, within the safe confines of his arms, cuddling me close, rubbing his hand lazily up and down my back and kissing the top of my head, pressing me against the entire length of him, our legs intimately intertwined, making me feel infinitely safe to take my time recovering and not feel as if he was impatiently waiting for me to return to normal. I got the distinct feeling that he was enjoying my slow descent as much as I was.

When my metaphorical feet were pretty much back on solid ground, and he'd sweetly asked if I was all right and I'd reassured him to his satisfaction that I had been thorough devastated by what he'd done to me, but that I was fine, he cupped my cheek. "I'm going to go out for a run. I want you to go back to sleep."

I opened my mouth to argue - which was pretty much an automatic response.

But his hand on my butt cheek - just there, not even squeezing or anything - had me closing it with a loud click.

"Smart girl. You still have a lot of sleep to make up for." He kissed me on the cheek and got up, completely unconcerned at his own nudity. I lay in bed, watching him surreptitiously - my breath caught in my throat at his startling male beauty - sneaking peeks at him when I knew he wasn't looking. When he was ready to go, he stood at the end of the bed, squeezing my big toe where it poked up from beneath the sheet and warning sternly, "I expect you to be asleep when I get home - not up cooking breakfast or cleaning the house or anything else, but sleeping."

I "grrrrred" at him because I felt I ought to, but, in truth, I was very nearly asleep anyway.

And I was still so when he got back. By the time I awoke, naturally, he had breakfast ready and was keeping it warm in the oven. I had thrown a robe over myself and wandered - stumbled, really - still rubbing the sleep from my eyes - out into the kitchen. He saw me from where he was reading on his iPad in the den and rose immediately to come hug me, lifting me against him to kiss me deeply. "Good afternoon, sleepyhead."

"Afternoon," I yawned and he chuckled.

"Hungry?"

My head nodded before I even thought about it, and I realized I _was_ a bit hungry, for the first time in a _very_ long time.

"Good." He set me down gently, reluctantly, and went to the oven and brought out scrambled eggs, bacon and muffins. "I remembered that this was your favorite breakfast, right?"

I was amazed that he had paid that much attention to me, even then. "Yes, it is, but where'd you get muffins?" I knew I didn't have any on hand, nor any mix for them.

"I jogged to Kendy's."

It was a tiny convenience store that was easily six or seven miles from here - one way.

"Oakley, you shouldn't have! That's terribly far for you to run, and the road is much too busy -"

He put one heaping plate out in front of the end chair at the snack bar and I wondered why there weren't two, but before I could ask that I found myself in his arms again, my toes dangling nearly a foot from the floor. " _Not_ the _Momma_ ," he said firmly and we both remembered that expression from the short lived sit-com we'd all watched together and I chuckled, and he smiled, then became more serious. "I mean it, doll. I'm your dom, not your son. Let's not confuse the two."

I toyed with the collar of his t-shirt, biting my lip. "That's not going to stop me from worrying about you, though. In fact, I'll probably worry more with you as my . . . " I'd thought it, but I hadn't really said it out loud until now.

"Say it," he whispered gruffly, squeezing me tighter when I stared resolutely at his chest. "Give me those pretty eyes of yours. What am I to you?"

My eyes darted to his, and to my horror they began to fill with tears. But I knew in my heart that he more than deserved to hear it from me. So I blinked them back as best I could and said it anyway, ignoring my painfully clenched heart, wishing it hadn't come out choked instead of the fervent declaration it should have been for him. "M-my dom."

His eyes flared at my words. "You bet your very sweet ass I am. I've wanted you for so long, lovely. And now that I have you, I'll never let you go." His lips tenderly kissed away the tears that had escaped despite my best efforts and the kiss he gave me was salty and piquant with conflicting emotions he was astute enough not to bring up - and he was also gentleman enough not to mention the fact that I had stood there - in this very room not long ago at all and told him he would _never be_ my dom.

Instead of putting me down and guiding me over to the snack bar, he walked us both there, refusing to relinquish his hold on me, settling me onto his lap instead, which, because of the condition he'd left my bottom in required a bit of adjusting to find a position I could tolerate, and then he proceeded to feed me by hand, from his plate.

"You haven't eaten yet?" I asked, dutifully accepting a bit of perfectly cooked bacon.

"No, I wanted to wait for you."

He fed me until I thought I was going to burst and I finally refused the bite of muffin - blueberry, my favorite - he offered.

His face clouded over and he didn't look happy, but I was adamant.

"If I eat another bite I'm going to throw up all over you."

His eyes narrowed at me suspiciously. "Well, all right," he relented ungraciously. "But I'm going to keep careful track of you from now on and make sure you're eating well." His finger tapped the tip of my nose. "Your days of skipping meals are over, understood?"

I rolled my eyes, but answered, "Yes, Sir."

When we were done, he set me down, cleaned up the few dishes then returned to stand in front of me with a frown. "Are you cold?" he asked.

Confused by the question, I responded, "No," then wished I hadn't when my robe was immediately whisked off my body.

He looked much happier at the sight of me standing there before him in the buff. "Naked. Much better. No more clothes in the house when I'm here, at least. I'd have you out of them in seconds, anyway, so no sense even putting them on, unless you're sick or cold."

He would have taken me back to bed, but I had things that needed doing, and he had outdoor chores awaiting him, too, and I pointed both of those things out to him, somewhat in self defense. I wasn't at all sure I would be able to live though another lovemaking session so soon. And my butt hadn't had any time to recover at all, either.

"Oh, all right," he grumbled, heading reluctantly out the door to confront the yard work.

I considered putting my robe back on, but then decided it wasn't worth another spanking if I got caught. So I did naked housework, which was a first for me. I ran the dishwasher, put in a load of whites, and ran upstairs with some new pillows I'd bought a while ago as spares that were to be stored in the bureaus in the guest rooms, going into Oakley's room - his _old_ room, I corrected, feeling how that tickled my brain to even think that - and that was when I noticed it.

I'd given him all of the linens necessary to make his bed last night when we'd parted and he'd gone upstairs with them.

But there they were, in the same neat stack, sitting on the end of his unmade bed.

He'd never even _attempted_ to make it, the little shit. He'd come back downstairs wearing those low slung pajama pants never _intending_ to go back up there, I'd bet my life.

I wasn't sure exactly how I felt about that, considering how things had gone between us, but it put me out of sorts for the rest of the afternoon, making me ignore the wash and the dishwasher full of clean dishes in favor of stewing over the reality of what I'd actually _done_ last night - and all morning - so that, when he found me in the den, I was in Paul's chair, curled in on myself, wearing the unmistakable signs that I'd spent the past hours sobbing.

Without a word, he scooped me up into his strong arms, settling me onto his lap and just holding me as I wept - inconsolably at times - my face pressed against his neck as he simply held and rocked me through the storm, as if it was something he'd wisely anticipated instead of something he was angry or worried about.


End file.
